


No Hero In Her Sky

by Black_Hole_of_Procrastination



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 14:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7318840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination/pseuds/Black_Hole_of_Procrastination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willas stumbles upon something he wishes he hadn’t in the Red Keep’s godswood. </p><p>A ‘what-if Renly and the Starks had formed an alliance’ fic.</p><p>Originally Written for the 'Seven Hells' Game of Ships Challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Hero In Her Sky

Margaery is upon him from the moment Willas dismounts his horse. She rains kisses on his cheeks and nearly topples them both onto the cobbles of the courtyard before a servant can hand him his cane.

“I’m so glad you are here!”

Willas smiles at her fondly as she clasps his free hand in both of hers.

“Of course I’m here, little sister.”

She is his queen now. It seems quite a different thing from when they were in Highgarden. Then it has been nothing but a fragile, pretty mummery. His sister holding court among the roses while Father schemed and Renly and their brothers played at war. But now…

The crown on her head was not so long ago on Cersei’s. Willas knows another is being made (at great expense to the Tyrell coffers, much to his dismay) one that is more to his sister’s tastes. Still, seeing that circle of bronze and gold upon his sister’s head has him thinking wistfully of the little girl she once was, sweet and so very bright, squealing with laughter as she chased Loras through Highgarden’s orchards, apple blossoms in her hair.

She beams, taking his elbow and steering him inside the keep.

Willas has no love for this place. He’d traveled to the capital a time or two when he was very small, and save for the banners flying over the Red Keep and the man sitting on that iron monstrosity, little seems to have changed. The stench of the city. The heat. The endless press of people crowded together. But he is will gladly endure it for _her_. He would not miss his little sister’s coronation.

It takes all of two days spent trapped with sycophantic courtiers and father’s constant blustering about naming him to the Small Council to send Willas running from the Red Keep.

He needs to be outside of those ugly red stone walls and surrounded by something green and alive. Mayhaps then he can pretend for a moment he is home, content with his animals and his books and his _peace_.

He is not fool enough to go to the keep’s gardens. He already knows that is Granny’s domain, and he’d avoid the harridan a little longer if he can.

He steers clear of the till yard as well. No doubt that is where his brothers occupy themselves, but Willas does not need another reminder of his uselessness or his twisted wreck of a leg.

Instead, Willas ventures out to the godswood.

With so many northmen in the keep, Willas had wondered if he might stumble across some Stark bannerman at prayer, but as he slowly weaves through the rows of elms and alders he is pleased to find the place is quite deserted.

Willas is as much a Hightower as a Tyrell. He was born into the light of the Seven and he has yet to see anything match the beauty of the Starry Sept. Still, there is something to be said for a godswood. A sort of peacefulness that cannot be replicated within stone walls.

Mayhaps with their new friendship with House Stark, he might venture north someday. See Winterfell’s godswood. Or venture farther north still. It is said there are entire forests made of weirwoods if you ride far enough. That is something Willas would very much like to see.

Willas is so wrapped up in fancies of traveling northward, he does not notice that the godswood is not as deserted as he had once thought.

Then he hears it.

At first, he thinks someone is injured. He hurries towards the sound to offer his assistance. It is not until he stumbles into a small clearing that realizes the cry is not from pain but something else entirely.

Willas stares frozen at the sight in front of him. He recognizes his sister immediately, her back pressed into the trunk of a tree. It takes him only a second longer to recognize that the russet curls laced between her fingers belong to the King in the North.

_Robb Stark is kissing Margaery._

The thought has Willas reeling. His hand clenches white-knuckled around the polished handle of his cane.

He is used to the sound of his cane announcing his approach wherever he goes (to his great annoyance). In this instance, he rather wished it had. As it stands, the lovers seems too wrapped up in each other to take notice of him gawking in the shade of a nearby elm.

Were he Loras, he might charge forward, hotheaded and sword drawn to challenge the cur. Even Garlan might do the same. He’s always had his own ideas about family honor. But Willas is numb, unmoving.

Suddenly, Margaery break the kiss and makes cry, just like the one that first drew Willas to this clearing. It is then Willas notices that the boy king’s hand is up the front of Margaery’s skirts.

Willas flushes with a confusing mix of embarrassment and anger, and makes a hasty retreat back to the keep.

He pours himself a generous cup of wine when he returns to his rooms, and nearly drinks it in one, eager to drown out the image of his baby sister in the arms of Robb Stark.

Willas is not a violent man, but that night he falls to sleep dreaming up ways to geld the northern king.

He wakes with his head aching from the wine, the memory of the day before wretchedly clear once more. In the light of day, he finds it hard to lay the blame solely at the Stark boy’s feet. Margaery is no innocent in this, of that Willas is sure.

There have been others. A comely stableboy. A music teacher. A squire or two. Such things are less frowned upon in the Reach. Intercessions can be made. Heads turned.

But they are not in the Reach now. Margaery is no longer the Rose of Highgarden, who can smile and tease her way out of trouble. She is a woman wed. A queen. And Robb Stark is no stableboy, to be dismissed and sent packing.

Willas shouldn’t be surprised by Margaery. She’s been an unrepentant flirt from the time she first flowered (though he never thought her capable of this kind of recklessness)

He  _is_  surprised by Robb Stark. He knows too little of the man to properly sketch his character, but he has heard enough of these Starks to know that they place a high price on honor. Willas suspects that therein must have been the challenge and the attraction for Margaery to pursue such a foolish liaison.

Willas begins to watch them both closely.

He is a silent audience of one to all manner of stolen looks and casual touches. There is nothing lurid in them, nothing so openly shown as what he stumbled upon in the godswood, but Willas follows every movement with the focus of a kestrel on it’s perch.

The coronation day arrives.

It is the stuff of songs. Margaery and Renly are resplendent, decked in cloth of gold and black velvet, as they ride through the city’s streets. Margaery hands out roses and silver stags amongst the crowd during the progress from the Great Sept to the keep, and Willas notes that it is her name they cheer just as much as Renly’s.

Robb Stark behaves as he should. He sits in the gallery beside his mother and sisters during the ceremony, and chats happily amongst his own men at the feast. Willas begins to allow himself to believe that whatever foolishness he witnessed is at an end.

The next day he finds them strolling through the gardens, Robb Stark’s wolf trotting at their heels. They are arm in arm, laughing, and while Willas supposes there is nothing too untoward in that, Willas notices that Margaery does not wear her newly made crown. Instead, a single blue rose is tucked behind one ear. A winter rose. It is in that moment he realizes this is more than just a lustful dalliance.

Willas pities and fears for them both.

The secret is too much too bear alone. He seeks out Garlan and confesses all.

“How long?” he asks, when his brother does not seem the least bit surprised.

Garlan frowns, running a tired hand over his bearded chin.

“I can’t be sure,” he shrugs. “Since the battle at Ashemark, maybe.”

Three months, then.

Anger roils inside Willas. At his father for allowing this to happen right under his nose. At his brothers for not watching her when he could not. At Robb Fucking Stark.

Was Cersei Lannister’s head on a pike not firm enough warning what came of women cuckolding kings?

“Does Renly know?”

“I don’t think so,” Garlan pauses, considering. “I don’t think he’d much care if he did.”

Willas disagrees.

However Renly and Margaery may differ in their appetites, Willas doubts Renly would be pleased if Margaery whelped him the Young Wolf’s bastard.

The night before the northmen are to leave there is a feast.

It is the usual spectacle held here at court with fools, and minstrels, and so many courses Willas loses count in the end.

Willas spends most of the evening balking at the extravagances that will no doubt be paid for with his father’s coin and dodging Granny’s heavy-handed attempts at pushing him towards sweet, broken little Sansa Stark. He is far more concerned with the Stark already in their midst.

Margaery and Renly make for quite the winning pair. Renly is all good humor, toasting his guests and japing with those seated at the high table. Margaery is all witty asides and bright smiles.

Willas thinks perhaps he is the only one to notice how false those smiles are.

That changes soon enough. The dancing begins and Margaery takes to the floor, the departing King in the North her partner, and there is nothing false about the joy on her face.

As he watches them, Willas wishes he could protect her from what’s to come, but he is a useless in this as he is in the yard.

“I hear our northern guests have departed,” Willas broaches the next morning. He is walking in the godswood again, this time with Margaery on his arm. “And with them, their king.”

Margaery is quiet a moment, her face serenely empty. She gives nothing away.

“He will be glad to be in his own country,” she says after a time.

“And I wonder if he will be so _glad_ to wed his Frey,” Willas mutters. He catches the unguarded hurt in Margaery’s eyes. Guilt crests over him in a wave. “Margy, I–” he tries to apologize.

“Don’t.” She gives his arm a warning squeeze.

They walk in silence a moment, Willas grappling for what to say.

“That was unkind. I’m sorry.”

“Then you shall have to make it up to me.”

“Oh?” He does not like the where this is heading.

Margaery turns to him, an impish grin on her face.

“Yes, you will have to take tea with us.”

Willas manfully accepts his punishment and stomachs an afternoon of tea in the gardens with Granny’s endless haranguing.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Margaery as she gossips and giggles amongst their cousins. She is all smiles but they are brittle, as if they might break apart on her face at any moment.

Margaery is used to breaking hearts, but Willas wonders if she knows what to make of her own heart breaking.


End file.
